Page 26 of Coming Up Roses

At the halfway point in the line, they have a small table where a woman’s selling . . . tickets? No words are exchanged. Myla Rose just holds up two fingers and passes her a twenty-dollar bill before I can think to grab my wallet. By the time the lady hands back her change, I'm scrambling to not look like an ass.

"Myla, let me—"

She gently pushes my wallet back to me. "This is my treat. You've never experienced this greatness, and I am excited to be the one to give it to you."

Now, I know she doesn't mean anything dirty, but my mind . . . yeah, he's not on the same page. My thoughts are racing a mile a minute over all the greatness she could give me.

"How many?" the lady barks from inside her booth.

"Two, please." Myla Rose hands her our tickets in exchange for two of the most over-the-top strawberry shortcakes I've ever seen. I'm talking huge, fluffy cuts of angel food cake covered with a mixture of fresh strawberries and compote, with a fluffy whipped cream mountain as its crowning glory.

Myla Rose hands one to me, and together, we head to the makeshift pavilion where they've set up folding tables and chairs. Once seated, Myla wastes no time digging into hers.

"Damn, girl. You gonna eat all that?"

"Eating for two, you know." She giggles and pats her belly.

"Something tells me you devour this cake every year, no matter what."

She snaps her forefinger and thumb together. "Aww, you caught me." I can't help but to smile at how carefree and cute she is. For the first time, she finally seems totally at ease in my presence—and that feels like a victory.

She takes the last bite of her shortcake, and we both stand to throw away our plates. It's then I notice she has a little whipped cream on her bottom lip. I reach out to wipe it with my thumb at the same time she goes to lick it away. Her tongue swipes across my skin, and I'm hit with white-hot need. I need this woman. To taste that whipped cream straight from her lips.

Our plates long forgotten, we lean toward one another until our lips meet—a soft brush at first, exploratory. Shifting my hand to cup her jaw, I angle her exactly how I want her. She gasps softly, allowing me to deepen our kiss. I lick my tongue against hers, drinking down her sweet strawberry flavor. She runs her hands up and around my neck, her nails digging lightly into my shirt collar . . . gripping, grasping, wanting. I work my other arm around her waist, my hand resting just above the sweet curve of her ass. She presses her body in closer to mine, so close that I can feel her heartbeat against my ribs. It beats a fast rhythm, full of want and desire. I'm lost in her. Lost in her taste and the sound of her soft moans. Lost until someone loudly clears their throat, reminding us that we’re in a public place.

She looks down and runs her fingers through her hair before nervously dragging her eyes back up to mine. I can tell she wants to say something, but she doesn't. She just shakes her head and gives a little smile before scooping up our trash from the table and walking off to dispose of it.

In the three minutes she's gone, my thoughts kick into overdrive. What business do I have kissing her? I'm not ready for a relationship, or even these kinds of feelings. How do I know she's not like Kayla? How do I—my racing mind grinds to a halt when she reappears.

"Myla Rose, listen, I—"

"It's okay, Cash."

"No, listen. I shouldn't have kissed you. I–I'm sorry. I don't want to lead you on."

She throws her hands up as she backs away. "I said it's okay. I get it."

She doesn't stick around for me to reply, and I can't say I blame her. And to top it all off, I'm almost sure I saw tears in her eyes. Fuck.

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